


Claims

by lacedwithlilacs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedwithlilacs/pseuds/lacedwithlilacs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnar admires Athelstan's new hair style and the gentle touches convince Athelstan to let Ragnar keep touching him despite having never been touched before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claims

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place around s01e06/07 when Athelstan had that super great hairstyle (you all know which one I'm talking about). This also means that Ragnar is still married to Lagertha.
> 
> also lol at the title why do they even exist to be real

"Athelstan," Ragnar calls from his chair. The name echoes in the now empty hall, vacant of anyone else so late in the night. Lagertha and the children have retired for the night, the servants have all been dismissed to their own quarters, leaving only Ragnar, Athelstan, and the dying fire. Athelstan buries the still warm embers beneath the ashes as he looks up at Ragnar, sitting proudly at his chair. His legs spread wide, his back pressed against the furs draping down the chair. "Come here."

Athelstan looks down at the ashes, covers a few more before he hears Ragnar's throat clearing. There's still a few small flames that Athelstan should put out first, but he walks over to Ragnar before he vocalizes anymore demands. Ragnar takes a deep breath in as Athelstan climbs the step to his and Lagertha's chairs, their official seats of power, with soft furs.

Ragnar closes his legs a bit, sits up a bit higher and reaches up as Athelstan stands in front of him. "Come closer," he says, lifting his left hand and beckoning Athelstan with his fingers until the priest is standing mere inches away. "Have I told you I liked your hair this way?"

Athelstan shakes his head and Ragnar's eyes furrow for a moment. "No." Ragnar brings his hand up, to the top of Athelstan's head and pulls him down a bit. He leans over Ragnar awkwardly, trying to keep himself from placing his hand on the armrest to maintain his balance.  Ragnar's fingers, his nail beds no longer caked with dirt now that he's become Earl, scratch gently along his scalp. They massage, a gentleness that sends pops of relief down his spine, and Athelstan finds himself wanting more.

He does not let Ragnar touch him like this usually, does not take up Ragnar on his propositions for sex. But this, the way that Ragnar displays the subtle, careful gestures, makes Athelstan less opposed to the touch. Ragnar drags his fingernails along Athelstan's skull, dipping down to the crook of Athelstan's jaw, pressing his thumb against Athelstan's jawline slowly.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like to sit in my chair, priest?" Ragnar asks as he trails his thumb down Athelstan's jaw, Athelstan biting down on his lip, keeping his head held high and swallowing down his building desire.

Athelstan avoids Ragnar's eyes, casts them down and to the left, trying to find places he needs to tidy up tomorrow, trying to keep himself from enjoying the feeling of Ragnar's fingertips. A man like him, with callouses on the pads of his fingers from holding weapons and beating men to death, has a touch too intoxicating. Ragnar chuckles, deep in the back of his throat and he pushes himself forward, sitting on the edge of his chair. He reaches Athelstan's chin with the tip of his thumb, curves gently around and strokes upwards along the bottom of Athelstan's jawline.

"Do you want to see what it feels like?"

Athelstan swallows again, bites down on his bottom lip to try and keep himself from feeling any kind of pleasure.

"Well, priest?"

Athelstan shakes his head, "I could not, it is your chair."

Ragnar's thumb reaches the crook of Athelstan's jaw and he grabs Athelstan's neck, holds him still with a firm grip. His hand could squeeze, end Athelstan's life with only his fingers. Athelstan is not scared, does not have any reason to think that Ragnar will do anything dangerous. "I did not ask whose seat it was," Ragnar says with a bite. Athelstan looks down at Ragnar, staring into the crystal blue and trying to hold himself together.

Ragnar reaches behind Athelstan with his other hand, wraps it around the small of Athelstan's back. Ragnar moves back on his chair, pulls Athelstan with him. Athelstan almost falls forward, his right knee coming to rest on the furs over the seat of the chair. Ragnar's hand on his back spreads out, thumb stroking Athelstan's skin beneath the fabric slowly, teasingly. Athelstan bites back a groan as Ragnar slides his hand down Athelstan's throat, to the collar of his shirt.

Athelstan feels himself leaning forward again, still balancing on his knee and he feels the brushing of something hard against his hand. He quickly pulls it away from anywhere near Ragnar's lower stomach and places it firmly on the armrest. Ragnar lets out another chuckle, stops running his thumb along the bottom of Athelstan's spine. "Perhaps you could sit in the chair another way."

At this, Ragnar furthers sliding his hand down Athelstan's chest, his eyes flickering between Athelstan's and his fingertips. Athelstan can feel the hesitation from Ragnar, as he dips further down, waiting for Athelstan to whisper a soft, "Please don't" or to pull away all together. But Athelstan doesn't, doesn't say a single word or move even a muscle. He locks his eyes with Ragnar and dares him to keep going. Ragnar reaches the bottom of Athelstan's shirt, looks up again and crosses the threshold.

Ragnar shifts back, presses as far back into the chair as he can and pulls Athelstan with him, so both of Athelstan's knees rest on either side of his hips. Ragnar's hand cups him through the fabric of his pants, Athelstan drawing in a sharp breath through his nose. He should say no now, should pull away and leave and avoid Ragnar tomorrow. But the stroking on his back has resumed, Ragnar's hand fondles him like he's made of delicate china, and he figures if God truly protested, He'd have struck him down already. He has been touched now and there has been no lightning yet.

"You've never been touched before, have you priest?" Ragnar asks and Athelstan shakes his head. Ragnar seems to be transformed before him, almost like he's scared too that he's finally being allowed to touch. Athelstan can see the pause, careful not to ruin the permission that Athelstan's given him. "I will make up for lost time," Ragnar promises.

Ragnar pulls his hand away from Athelstan's cock, not yet fully hard but quickly getting there, and grabs at the hem of Athelstan's shirt with both hands. Ragnar tugs the material over his head, the dark brown fabric blocking out the soft, barely there yellows from the dying fire behind him. Ragnar throws the shirt away, to the side and out of Athelstan's eyesight in the dimly lit room. Ragnar's hands return to Athelstan's body, his hands cold against Athelstan's chest. He traces the contours of muscles, feels the way that Athelstan's chest hitches at his touch.

Athelstan lets out a squeak, more a sharp breath, as Ragnar drags one, calloused finger over his nipple. Ragnar smiles, looks up at Athelstan and does it again, drawing out the same, tiny noise. "I wonder what other sounds I can draw from you, Athelstan." Athelstan swallows at the way Ragnar says his name. It's not priest, it's not condescending or demanding. He bites his lips and tries to keep his body from making any other embarrassing sounds.

Then Ragnar pinches the nipple, rolls it between his index finger and thumb and Athelstan feels the sensation run down his spine. He gasps out and sees Ragnar's amused eyebrow raise. "How do you feel about kissing? It certainly, heightens the experience." Ragnar looks up at him with a genuinely curious expression, one that says that he will not be offended if he declines.

"I have never thought about it," Athelstan lies through his teeth. He has thought about it many times, wonder if the kisses that Ragnar and Lagertha shared, that others shared, if they were truly as pleasurable as they made it seem. It was the brushing of lips, the sucking of thin layers of skin. He wasn't quite sure how it felt. Regardless though, he gets the feeling that he would not be good at it anyways, that there is no point in dwelling on it.

Ragnar's hand moves to the back of Athelstan's neck, pulls him forward and into a rough kiss. Athelstan whimpers against Ragnar's lips, the force of Ragnar's lips against his own and the sensation that Ragnar's thumb and index finger combining. It does heighten it, Athelstan thinks to himself, the inability to watch Ragnar's fingers as they switched between his pink nipples. Ragnar kisses hard and soft at the same time, delicate but demanding. Athelstan feels embarrassed almost at his lack of skill, even though there's no reason he should be at all good at it.

Athelstan's hands are removed from the arm rests, placed on Ragnar's shoulders by Ragnar's own hands. "If I am allowed to touch you, then you are allowed to touch me as well," Ragnar says between kisses and Athelstan nods dumbfounded. "Let yourself go Athelstan."

Athelstan nods, gently curls his fingers around Ragnar's broad, strong shoulders and tries to kiss like he means it. They're sloppy, because he's never had practice in this art before, but Ragnar seems to find them amusing, chuckling as he bites at Ragnar's bottom lip. Ragnar's hands slide down Athelstan's body, fingers tweaking nipples as they brush past them, and return to working on Athelstan's cock.

The sensation makes Athelstan feel like he's buzzing, vibrating with energy and pent up desire. The repression and the denial of so many years has pressurized to this singular instance. The feeling of Ragnar's hand dipping past the fabric of Athelstan's pants, the slow, meaningful strokes on his cock. Athelstan feels like he is being strung by a thin wire, pulled taut and then tighter and tighter still.

"Ragnar," Athelstan chokes out, pulls himself away from both Ragnar's lips and his hand. "I do not know what is happening," Athelstan admits. He avoids Ragnar's eyes, because he knows so much about this forbidden sensation but he does not know how it feels when it actually happens. Ragnar laughs that low, amused laugh and pushes Athelstan away.

Athelstan stands as Ragnar does, in front of the chair. Ragnar pulls Athelstan's pants down, pooling the fabric around his ankles. For the first time though, Athelstan doesn't have the immediate need to cover himself. Instead, he wants to see Ragnar's body in the dim light of the grand hall.

Ragnar comes up behind him, grabs Athelstan's wrists with his big, encircling palms, and places them on the seat of the chair. He bends Athelstan over, spreads his legs only a shoulder width apart and whispers into Athelstan's ear, "Stay like this." The thought of disobeying doesn't even cross his mind as Ragnar leaps off of the platform and comes back a moment later. "This," Ragnar says as Athelstan turns to look at Ragnar who has stripped along the way, "will help." He holds a small finger bowl, left over from their simple dinner of bread and oil.

Ragnar dips his fingers into the oil, coating two of them, front and back. He slides them together, the skin slipping back and forth with ease before he comes to stand behind Athelstan. "It will feel," Ragnar pauses, chews his words over, "odd; but very pleasurable afterwards." Athelstan narrows his eyes, his brows furrowing together as Ragnar takes his place with one hand gripping Athelstan's hip tightly.

One finger presses gently against his entrance, the skin and oil warmed from the same flush present on Ragnar's cheeks. Athelstan nearly yelps, edging forward on the palms of his hands. "Relax," Ragnar says, his thumb on Athelstan's hip stroking gently. "It should not hurt." Slowly, almost painfully so even though Athelstan has never experienced this, Ragnar slides his first finger into Athelstan. It reaches the first knuckle, Ragnar watching with his bottom lip bitten white between his teeth, like he's watching something magical; other worldly.

It is odd at first, Ragnar was right, but as Ragnar's finger pushes deeper, Athelstan begins to relax. When he does, when Ragnar's finger reaches the hilt, the pleasure washes over him. It is nothing he's ever felt before, not even remotely similar. Even Ragnar's hand working its teasing strokes on his cock can't compare. He doesn't know what to even begin to compare it to, how to logically think about it, so he doesn't. He instead lets himself be taken.

Ragnar pushes in and out, only one finger and twists to make chills run throughout Athelstan's body. He feels himself coming apart again, the same tautness as before, but its slower this time. It's drawn out, the sensations ebbing and flowing with a grace that makes Athelstan want more than one finger. He is babbling, he had not even known he was making sounds at all until Ragnar pulls his hand away from Athelstan's hip and slap it gently back. "My you are vocal. Such to be expected of a virgin."

The second finger joins Ragnar's first, the stretch now almost on the edge of discomfort, but slowly dissolving to pleasure. "Please Lord," Athelstan says in soft, Old English. He feels himself taken aback for a moment, having said it so thoughtlessly. It seemed as though it were a natural thing to say between moans, to utter out with such a wanton tone.

Athelstan finds his body almost pulled too tautly again, reaching towards climax, when Ragnar extracts his fingers. Athelstan looks back behind him, his fingers digging into the furs on the seat of the chair. "You look good like this," Ragnar says as he presses the head of his cock against Athelstan's entrance. Ragnar has slicked his cock up already, the new oil mixing with the warmed oil on Athelstan's skin. There is no shame anymore, no sense of holding himself back. He has sinned, not pushed Ragnar away at all, given in to the flesh; and no lightning has struck him down. He does not try to stifle his loud whimper as Ragnar pushes himself in.

Ragnar pauses once he is past the head. Athelstan grips the furs tight in his hands, knuckles turning white. Athelstan turns his head, back towards Ragnar and catches the crystal blues. "Please," Athelstan repeats in his Old English, and Ragnar nods.

It starts off slow enough, enough that Athelstan still finds himself wondering if there is something more; why men would speak so highly of this. Ragnar seems to be holding back for him though, because with every moan Athelstan emits, Ragnar pushes harder. He uses his hands on Athelstan's hips, pulling the thin, bony hips back towards his.

Athelstan can barely keep his thoughts straight, his body moving without any of his accord. Every limb of his feels on fire, his fingers and toes digging so tightly into the furs that he's almost worried he will rip them. All he can feel, the only sensation that he can focus on, is the feeling of Ragnar's cock inside him.

Then there is the brush of Ragnar's cock inside of him, against a certain spot that makes Athelstan's vision go white. His body tightens, jolts, and Athelstan cannot hold back his sounds at all anymore. He does not think about anything anymore beyond how badly he wants Ragnar to thrust in that exact angle again. Ragnar is a quick study though, taking only a few moments before he's fucking Athelstan so perfectly Athelstan cannot even moan anymore.

Every muscle in Athelstan's body goes rigid all at once and then slack, his entire energy going towards his cock. Athelstan comes, completely untouched. This is what being reborn feels like, Athelstan thinks to himself as he starts to come down from the high. Ragnar continues his movements deep inside, until Athelstan feels the pooling of heat in him. His head is spinning, unable to make sense of the floor or the ceiling. All he can manage thought about is how it felt, how he thought that denying himself such pleasure was thought of as virtuous.

Ragnar laughs at Athelstan's inability to move, inability to do much of anything besides be shifted by Ragnar. They sit in the chair, obviously wide enough for both of them if they wedge themselves properly. "How was it priest?" Athelstan cannot form words yet, simply nodding his head. "Do you see what you have been missing out on?"

Athelstan moves his arm, stiff at first, and places his hand on Ragnar's upper thigh. He leans gently against Ragnar's side, who sits there staring at the small flames in the hearth. "Now tell me, why would your god disapprove of such an act?"

Athelstan shakes his head, tries to speak once, wets his mouth and tries a second time. "I do not know." Ragnar wraps his arm around Athelstan's shoulders, pulls him close, and seems oddly satisfied at Athelstan's answer.


End file.
